


Head.

by persnickett



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was totally normal, when John leaned over to pick up the pretzels and corn chip crumbs now littering his carpet and Matt found himself staring at the top of John’s bald head and his fingers suddenly and actually prickled with the urge to touch it.</p><p>But the night Matt got up to get them what was probably one more beer too many, and flopped down next to McClane on the couch and DID start touching it...well. Maybe that night things had gotten a little out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head.

Matt had always sort of been kind of hyper-aware of his body – how it was kind of gangly and scrawny. He’d definitely been aware of how clumsy he could be, ever since he’d given up going out for the basketball team in high school after a very unsuccessful tryout in which he’d managed to give the team captain a bloody nose – and himself a black eye – although he was pretty sure Stephanie Gelderson had been exaggerating when she swore her toe was broken after he landed on top of her.  
   
It was tryouts. She shouldn’t have been sitting in the bleachers in the first place.  
   
But Matt’s uber-awareness of his physical self extended into an extreme sensitivity of everything that was going on inside his body too. Like he could always tell when he was getting sick, or was about to have an asthma attack, or when his blood sugar was low. Stephanie Gelderson told him he was a hypochondriac once. Matt actually wasn’t sure why Stephanie had hung around him so much. She had never really seemed to actually _like_ him. But together they had been able to do things with Matt’s over-sensitive body that...yeah.  
   
So Matt had a pretty responsive reaction to a lot of stimuli around him and it was never a like a huge surprise when that stimulus just happened to be another dude. It didn’t happen too often, but it wasn’t weird or anything. Guys were just as hot as girls were – okay maybe not, but close.  
   
Guys didn’t have the parts girls had, and don’t get him wrong, Matt seriously loved himself some girl parts. But guys had other parts. Hard ones. Parts that bulged and dipped if you ran your fingers over them, sinews and hollows in their necks, sharp angles in their jaw lines. Big, wide-palmed hands that felt really awesome wrapped around your dick. Guys – well, most guys – didn’t have the kind of hair girls had either, long and soft and sweet-smelling. And the guy Matt’s body had been reacting to lately certainly didn’t.  
   
He was bald.  
   
It didn’t _mean_ anything when John McClane called to invite him over to watch the Giants game and Matt could feel his mouth get wetter at just the sound of that rich, cocoa-toned voice like Pavlov’s dog. It was totally normal, when John leaned over to pick up the pretzels and corn chip crumbs now littering his carpet and Matt found himself staring at the top of John’s bald head and his fingers suddenly and actually _prickled_ with the urge to touch it.  
   
But the night Matt got up to get them what was probably one more beer too many, and flopped down next to McClane on the couch and _did_ start touching it...well. Maybe that night things had gotten a little out of hand.  
   
***  
   
John wasn’t sure what he was doing, plying the kid with yet another beer. This just might be another one of his Very Bad Ideas, but he suspected he was getting maybe a little too toasty already himself, because he couldn’t seem to bring himself to care – even with the memories of the last time they’d done this still vivid as an instant replay.  
   
It happened after John had switched over to whiskey of course, long after they’d moved on from ESPN to _Turner Classics_.  Matt had surprised him by being able to handle a few shots pretty damn well, but it was definitely doing a number on the kid’s head, because when Matt got up to get himself another chaser, that’s when it started.  
   
Matt sat down facing him and sprawled all over John’s couch, looking about ready to melt right into it, and dropping his head inquisitively to the side against the couch back like he was gearing up to spend the rest of the night staring at John instead of the TV.  
   
John raised an eyebrow and waited, but the kid didn’t seem to have anything to say – just kept right on looking at him with those steady brown eyes. John resolved to ignore him, keeping his own eyes firmly trained on Lee Marvin, but then Matt moved right on from staring, to _petting_.  
   
John thought it was probably the alcohol alone, that stopped him from jerking away from the touch in indignant surprise when he felt fingers stroking exploratively over his temple. As it was, John just turned his head slowly and sent him a frown that at this point was probably a lot closer to sloppy than discouraging.  
   
“What? You don’t hafta give me McClane-face. I’m just...” Matt’s gaze and fingers traveled up over the crown of his head, and John’s jaw clenched against the reflexive shiver that chased after them.  
   
“Touching,” Matt concluded wryly, before giving a slack grin. “I’m drunk and I’m touching. Sorry about that.” Didn’t stop, though.  
   
“Did you already take your codeine?”  
   
Whatever the hell this was, was probably John’s fault. They were mixing entirely too much shit together, he’d forgotten the kid wasn’t used to the meds.  
   
“Yeah,” Matt drawled, trailing fingers down the back of his skull so that the deep shiver spread down his neck, like it was making up for not having hair to raise on his head by going to work on the stuff on his arms, and even his _chest_ , for God’s sake.  
   
“Hey.” Matt’s thumb was sliding slowly across the tender skin under his ear, now. “Found a new one.”  
   
“What?” John should be pulling away from the kid at the very least – and decking him one at the worst.  
   
But as it was, with the whiskey running a warm, pleasant comfort through his veins and the sensation and touch conspiring to cloud and dull his thinking, he just turned his head a fraction, like a guy who didn’t really want to dislodge that wandering hand as much as he should. It had clearly been too long.  
   
“New scar!” Matt announced. “What’s this one, did you tangle with a serial killer who liked to collect trophies? Had a necklace made of ears or some trope like that?”  
   
And then John nearly bit right through his tongue, because the kid slid his thumb over the thin little scar under John’s ear again, and then he traded the questing pads of his fingers for the edges of his fingernails, scraping them idly over bare scalp and two days of stubble. The new sensation shot sharp jags of electricity down his spine to his gut.  
   
Matt seemed completely oblivious. He curled his fingers up around the curve of John’s ear again, examining it.  
   
“...Too young for ’Nam,” he crooned, musingly. “You know, I always thought you were bald by some combination of genetics and choice. Never thought that maybe you could have actually had a run-in with a scalper.”  
   
Matt punctuated the remark by washing his entire hand warmly over the top of John’s scalp, and then stopped with the insistent pawing.  
   
Finally.  
   
Too bad.  
   
“Surgery, actually,” John said, trying to keep his voice steady, and his sudden plaintive, bereft feeling out of it. “To fix a busted ear drum.”  
   
“Wow,” Matt breathed, and this time John couldn’t clamp down on his reaction, because the damn kid was suddenly _right_ there, all over him, looking into John’s ear like he could see the stitches or something; so close John could feel the heat of his breath down his collar, and he swore he felt eyelashes graze his cheek.  
   
“Bomb? Or gunshot. My money’s on gunshot.”  
   
Matt’s hair was tickling the top of his head. Sweet _mother of—_ John got up off the couch while he still could.  
   
“I’ll tell you the story if you’ll go to bed.” It was always a no-fail trick when he used to use it on Jack and Lucy. “No way in hell you’re driving anywhere. C’mon kid. It’s past last call.”  
   
“Sure,” Matt slurred amiably, “take me away, Officer. I’ve had more than’s good fer me.”  
   
Never a truer word. Matt barely managed to toe his sneakers off when they got there, and only then because John stood over him glowering – and swaying slightly – until he did it. Then Matt turned over and promptly passed out; stretching out on his stomach so his face was buried in John’s pillow and his t-shirt rucked up just high enough to expose the little dimples above his ass, where they peeked sassily out of his boxers.  
   
John went back to the couch, but he didn’t so much sleep as lie there, staring at the ceiling stroking himself lazily until he came harder than any man with Jack Daniels for a blood stream had a right to, and feeling like a dirty old man.  
   
Which didn’t stop him doing it all over again the very next night, when he went to bed still fucking hung over, and found his pillow smelling innocently of Matthew’s shampoo.  
   
***  
   
Okay so maybe it meant something.  
   
Maybe it was kind of a little crush or something. Because now Matt wanted…well he didn’t know exactly what he wanted, it seemed to be a lot of things. He wanted to rut and lick and touch and taste, and otherwise generally get to know the feel of McClane on, around, and inside as many parts of his body as he could accomplish.  
   
And he wanted it really bad.  
   
It was keeping him up nights, in all senses of the word. Thoughts of the way McClane’s skin would feel, not just under his hands but against his tongue, what he might taste like. That scalp, rough with razor stubble and salt-greasy with sweat. He thought about what John might do, if Matt were to touch it again, stroke it a little, maybe even put a few light kisses here and there.  
   
Would John like it? What would it feel like being bald, and having someone make love to the top of your head? Would it be a shuddery, erogenous mind-melty experience, or would it just kind of make McClane laugh his ass off at him and totally ruin the mood?  
   
Then Matt was thinking about how much he liked it when somebody else messed with his hair during a good heavy make out session. How much he liked it when _John_ messed with it, like the way he’d ruffled it just in passing on his way to the coffee pot, the morning after the night Matt so spectacularly failed at keeping his hands to himself like he’d learned absolutely nothing from kindergarten.  
   
Yeah. Having somebody pay a good few minutes of undivided attention to the top of your head was gonna be pretty damn erogenous, hairy or not, Matt decided.  
   
It was pure conjecture though. There was no way John McClane was ever going to get into any kind of mood that could potentially be ‘ruined’, with Matt Farrell, but that was how this started. It was just a kind of curiosity – well okay so maybe it was a crush _plus_ curiosity – but now Matt was pretty sure it was turning rapidly into an obsession.  
   
Because he was back on McClane’s couch, admittedly far closer to sobriety this time, and still, John’s shiny pate kept mercilessly drawing Matt’s gaze like a tractor beam.  
   
Matt looked down and picked at the label on his beer bottle, and tried to pretend he wasn’t staring again.  
   
***  
   
The kid was at it again.  
   
John tried not to keep watching him picking distractedly at the bottle in his hand. At least one of them should be watching the damn television.  
   
“You never gave me that story,” he said, sliding toward him across the couch. “About what happened to your eardrum.”  
   
John was careful not to move outwardly but he could feel every muscle going tense in anticipation of the tentative, exploring touch he was sure was coming.  
   
“You passed out on me, kid. Your loss.”  
   
Sure enough, curious fingertips landed just behind his ear again, and traveled slowly around to the nape of his neck. This time around, the touch had all the memories of the last time backing it up, the same memories that had been keeping John’s hand busy night after night this week, and his body reacted all the quicker. Warmth and arousal flooded south, this time unfettered by the slow, friendly burn of the whiskey.  
   
“Okay,” Matt was laughing, sitting back and drawing those provocative fingers back. “My bad.”  
   
John took his eyes off the screen and allowed himself a second’s glance at the kid – mostly as cover for the way he had to uncomfortably shift his position on the couch.  
   
Matt licked his lips. Neither of them was watching the TV now.  
   
“You know, you might have better luck taking people to bed when they’re not completely plastered. Which, just saying, _I’m_ not. This time.” It was pretty impossible to miss the teasing glitter in Matt’s eye. “…I promise to stay the night and everything.”  
   
John had to get up off that couch. He could laugh, and offer the kid another drink to fix that. Or…  
   
Matt saved him the trouble, by leaning forward and grabbing at his forearm, the minute John was on his feet.  
   
“Another one!” he exclaimed. “Why am I not surprised, what is that, a _bite_ mark? Oh man, I change my mind, put me down for _that_ bedtime story instead.”  
   
This teasing shit was going to have to stop real quick, or John was going to stop acting responsibly. Or maybe he was already there, letting Matt draw him closer to where he was still sitting down on the couch. At that eye level it would be pretty hard to miss what John had happening in his chinos.   
   
“Whoa,” Matt said, right on cue and dropping his hold on John’s arm. He licked his lips again, and looked up at him.  
   
John didn’t know what came next. He didn’t move though. Just watched Matt watching him, and waited.  
   
“That’s why I wear jeans,” Matt said slowly, keeping his gaze locked on John’s while he reached for his fly. “Better camouflage.”  
   
John felt his pulse pick up while he watched what Matt was doing – unbuttoning and unzipping, and pulling free an erection of his own that looked pretty near fully-fledged. “See?”  
   
John let out a breath – apparently he’d been holding it. Matt was still sitting there, casual as all get out, watching him without blinking and stroking his fingers along the length of that long, slim cock of his until it was standing straight up in the air.  
   
“Your turn,” Matt told him, and John was way past arguing by now.  
   
He got his belt and button open, but stalled on the zipper when Matt stood up and started tugging John’s shirt off, pressing up against his skin so he the wet tip of his cock slid briefly against his belly.  
   
Matt was stroking his long fingers over John’s head again, leaning forward and running his lips down the tendon in his neck.  
   
“Oh my God,” he breathed, over the notch in the centre of John’s clavicle. “You’re _so_ …”  
   
“Talk too much,” John interrupted, catching Matt’s face in both hands and tipping his head up to finally, finally bring their mouths together. He wasn’t quiet then either, making an ecstatic ‘mmm!’ noise that made John’s still-trapped cock kick firmly against the restraining cloth.  
   
The kiss was amazing, urgent and demanding, and it sent shots of desire through him faster and harder than anything Matt had been doing to him on the couch. Matt didn’t stay still for it long though, angling his head down to John’s neck and putting the wet heat of his mouth to his skin. It felt like Matt’s mouth and hands were everywhere, down his neck and chest, running up and down his back, stopping to rub and tease at his nipples, and always moving downward by slow increments, until Matt was moving backward to drop his ass to the couch cushion again, pulling John forward with him.  
   
John had to suppress a groan of relief when Matt finally got his zipper open and set him blessedly free. Matt still heard it though, sparing a glance up to make eye contact before turning his attention back to business.  
   
“Holy shit.” Matt made a hissing noise at the sight of his cock, heavy and dark with the prolonged torture and imprisonment by now.  
   
John let out a gasp of his own too, when Matt immediately wrapped his long fingers around it, and swiped his thumb roughly over the head.  
   
“Nice, McClane,” he said, in an admiring tone. “Really nice.”  
   
Honestly, this fucking kid.  
   
“Is this the part where you finally shut up?” John asked, moving close enough to rest both hands on Matt’s shoulders.  
   
“Not usually.” But he started mouthing along the underside of John’s cock, lipping under the edge of the sensitive rim. He kept it up a good minute or so too, looking puckishly up at him through tousled bangs.  
   
John’s fingers had clenched into fists in the fabric of Matt’s shirt sleeves.  
   
“Matt,” John was panting with it by now, stretched to the limit, “quit fucking around with me.”  
   
Matt huffed out a little laugh at that; mouth open, tongue still glued to the sensitive vein under the tip of his dick. The hot, moist gust of air over the shiny-wet skin of his cockhead was enough to make his balls draw tight. If he didn’t get some friction, _something_ soon, John just might snap.  
   
“ _Jesus_ ,” he groaned.  
   
Matt shook his head. The effect was pleasing. Both the sensation it created, and the view – hair tumbling from side to side around Matt’s temples. John let go of his fistful of cotton in favour of stroking his fingers over Matthew’s hair, smoothing his bangs off his forehead, threading his fingers into the soft strands.  
   
“Matt,” the kid corrected him saucily, between sucks, releasing John’s red, swollen cock with a dirty _pop_ , and then going back for more.  
   
“Doncha know it’s rude to talk with your mouth full?” John twisted his fingers deeper into Matthew’s mop, digging in to the roots and grabbing hold.  
   
The moan that it pulled out of him nearly had John coming down the kid’s throat. The vibration alone was almost enough, but the kicker was that it couldn’t have been more obvious how damn much he enjoyed it.  
   
“Like that? That what you wanted?”  
   
Matt nodded a little, the motion tautening the strands wrapped around his fingers and once again creating a sensation that John really fucking appreciated, but likely couldn’t take much more of, unless he wanted this over real fast. So he tightened the fist he was making in Matt’s hair, careful not tear too hard to but enough to pretty effectively hold him still.  
   
“Fucking _teasing_.” Two could play at that game, and now John knew just how to do it.  
   
John slid his dick – rock hard and aching, now – out of Matt’s mouth, ignoring the temptation of the both the sound and the feel of another little moan of protest. He moved it over the moistened lips and under Matt’s chin. Ran the wet, leaking head over the ridges of his throat column where the smooth, soft skin was free of razor stubble because the kid couldn’t seem to grow any beard to speak of. He rubbed his shaft into the rut of Matt’s prominent collarbone, and slid his slick, tender head up and into the sweet, flat plane behind his ear.  
   
“Are you seriously fucking my _hair_ right now?” Matt snarked, but his voice was rough and breathless with need. “You sure you don’t want to see someone about this kinky fetish you seem to be developing?”  
   
Constantly talking bullshit, even with his lips dark and swollen and his pupils big and lust-blown.  
   
“I might just have to make you shut up after all,” John replied, drawing his dick over Matt’s cheek and leaving a slick little trail back to those eagerly waiting lips.  
   
“Such a tease. Weeks of it. Do you know what you do to me, huh?”  
   
Matt made another little whimper noise around his cock that said he liked John’s talk just as much as the handling, and John knew he was done for. He released his hold and let the kid have the reins, keeping up his low banter as long as he could while Matt sucked and bobbed and mewled until John’s voice caught and choked and turned to a ruined set of gasps punctuated with curses and the single, surprised little shout of Matt’s name.  
    
***  
   
Okay so it totally meant something.  
   
Matt finally got the top of McClane’s head right up close and personal, when John dropped to his knees to return the favour. But it was hardly the time. And it was way too much of a distraction anyway; the way John shoved him back into the couch, running his hands up and down Matt’s thighs and setting all the nerve endings alight and all the blood rushing around, to pretty impressive effect – equally effectively holding him in place too, so he couldn’t squirm, or buck his hips too much, almost like McClane knew Matt’s bedroom MO before they ever got there.  
   
There was no way Matt was moving anyway, because John was _good_ at this. Although it might have been a slightly unfair advantage, being so clearly built for it.  
   
One of those big broad hands wrapped tightly around the base of his dick, coupled with the wicked talents of that dirty-talking mouth McClane turned out to have on him, and John had Matt’s body doing things Stephanie Gelderson could have only read about in one of her Chick Lit novels. It wasn’t long before he was arching up into those hands and gripping the edge of the couch so hard he worried his fingernails might actually puncture the leather, and making a lot of desperate, encouraging noises that might have embarrassed him if he hadn’t been too busy coming and coming so long and so hard that his vision started to go dark at the corners and he _actually_ saw stars.  
   
John did take him to bed after that, once Matt could walk under his own power again, that is. He’d never gotten his story, and he still hadn’t realized his ambition to learn the taste and feel of John’s scalp on his tongue...but then as far as Matt was concerned, there would be plenty of time for that later, now. Maybe in the morning when John took those big hands of his and played Fuck up Farrell’s Follicles on his way for the java, Matt would just hop right up on the kitchen counter and start returning the favour.  
   
But for now he just settled for reaching up to brush light fingers over and over the curve of that beloved dome, where John was pressed up against him, with one big possessive arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders and his nose buried firmly in Matt’s hair.  
   
He _had_ promised to stay the night, after all.  
   
   
FIN. 


End file.
